


Listen With Your Heart

by moosewingz



Category: Pocahontas (1995)
Genre: (and how old is that kid meant to be anyways), Gen, Kocoum is highly attractive and stoic, M/M, Thomas is a moron, and he has the biggest crush on John Smith, it's just embarrassing, not that he's worked that out yet, somebody stop me, why do i ship them anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:43:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moosewingz/pseuds/moosewingz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following John as he explored the island had seemed a good idea at the time. Of course, now Thomas is completely and utterly lost and has absolutely no idea how to get back to the ships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Listen With Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elanor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elanor/gifts).



> I honestly don't know why I wrote this - I was actually about to go to bed when suddenly my brain decided that no, this was a better idea. It's silly, and over the top, but I left it as it was, because I think it kind of shows Thomas' frame of mind. Maybe? :'D (Just be thankful that I took out the two paragraphs that made it even worse...)
> 
> Title is from the Pocahontas OST.

***

Following John had seemed like a good idea at the time. You know, back when they all got off the ship and started to set up camp, and John started looking around at the land with this light in his eyes - like he was seeing something more than the rest of them, like he was seeing the earth and trees and sky and everything in between. John had looked at this new world – this _Virginia_ \- like he was amazed by how different it was to home, back in England; not like it was just another bit of earth which could be used for houses.

Seeing John look like that had made Thomas, only nineteen and on his first voyage away from England, feel less out of place.

So yes, he'd followed him. He'd kept back, out of sight, and as quiet as he knew how to be; John might have been nice on the journey here - he'd been _wonderful_ on the journey - but that didn't mean he wouldn't resent Thomas trailing him everywhere (like most of the other sailors did already). Thomas wanted to see the world, explore this new and exciting place, and he was small enough and new enough that Ratcliffe had overlooked him when giving out orders, and Thomas had slunk away with only the slightest twinge of guilt.

After all, when else would he get a chance to wander around a place like this?

And at first, it had been incredible, fantastic, amazing. Forests, grasses, colours and smells he'd never known before - and it was all the more special because Thomas _knew_ no one back in England, not one of the boys who'd teased him for being small and ginger and having terrible acne, none of them could say they'd done this. John was wary, Thomas could tell, and he did his best to mimic him, trying to stay alert and aware just like he'd been taught (but it was difficult, when _everything_ was distracting and marvellous and _new_ ).

When John reached the river and started clambering across rocks, Thomas hung back even further, not wanting John to catch him in the open space. He'd just managed to get close enough to the water to feel the spray hitting his face, be deafened by the crash of the waterfall, tucked in between two boulders that shielded him mostly from sight. He wasn't entirely sure what John was doing, crouching among the cliffs and getting out his gun, but he'd waited, hardly daring to breathe, still more afraid of being caught by John and sent back to the shore in disgrace - losing the one friend he had in this crew - than of whatever threat John had sensed.

Of course, the last thing he'd expected - almost certainly the last thing anyone had expected, honestly - was for a beautiful woman to appear, for John to be instantly fascinated, and for them to run off into the woods together. He'd scrambled out from behind his rocks as fast as he could, and he'd just about kept up with them, crashing and bumbling through the forest, expecting John to turn and confront him at any moment, until they reached the stream.

Then they'd somehow ...bonded, Thomas supposed, and disappeared off again, leaping and dancing and _singing_ , Thomas could _swear_ he could hear them singing.

Unfortunately, his shirt had snagged on a branch as he moved to follow them, and when he twisted around to unhook it, his belt caught on a different one. By the time he finally struggled out of the trees, staggering and stumbling over his own feet, barely managing to stay upright, both John and the mysterious woman had vanished.

On top of that, it was late afternoon already, and the sun was already starting to set, streaks of purple and pink reaching across the sky, turning the treetops lilac. Standing still, the chill creeping in after the warm day couldn't be ignored, and Thomas had hunched over slightly, clenching his jaw and trying to hold onto his earlier excitement.

Yes, following John had seemed like a good idea at the time. But now he was stuck out in the middle of an uncharted island with absolutely no idea of how to get back to the camp and his fellow sailors.

***

Hunkering down under the branches of yet another willow tree - or was it the same one? Thomas honestly couldn't tell anymore, and he'd been out long enough that darkness was really, truly setting in. He could barely see three feet in front of him, and even that was only due to the faint moonglow reaching through the leaves above, dappling the forest floor in white and blue.

If he didn't get back soon, then-- well, there were a few possibilities, none of them good. He could be punished for disobedience, even desertion, if he was caught sneaking back into camp this late, and he wasn't vital enough to the navy to guarantee that he'd keep his job.

But that was probably the best of his options.

Out here in the forest, there was no telling what Thomas might bump into. He'd heard tell of fearsome beasts that roamed these strange lands far across the sea from England, and in the gloom under the trees, all the bravado that Thomas had summoned up at his brothers' stories had deserted him. And of course, there were the natives. The woman John had run off with had seemed friendly enough, or she had for the brief moments that Thomas had seen her, anyway. But there was no telling what any others of her people would do, if they came across a strange foreigner wandering their island in the dead of night.

Thomas was terrified.

Reluctantly, he squatted down where he was, huddling into his coarse shirt and hoping against hope that the sun rose early here. He wasn't going to risk stumbling blindly into the den of a vicious animal, or falling down a ravine, or bumping into whatever people lived here.

***

Thomas jerks upright, thwacking his head back against the tree trunk and biting his tongue to keep himself from crying out. Despite the cold and the dark and all his fears, he'd somehow managed to drop off into a light doze, and for a minute, he isn't sure what's woken him.

Then he hears it again.

A crack somewhere in the dark around him. A whisper as something brushes against a leaf.

Thomas can't make himself any smaller, can't even tell which direction the noise is coming from to try to stay out of sight. Instead, he crouches uncomfortably, frozen and wide-eyed, lips twitching with the need to shout, call for help. His hands are shaking where he's fisted them in his shirt, tucked in behind his knees, and the tension is going to kill him even if whatever's making the noises doesn't.

His mind is conjuring up horrific images, terrible imaginings, and he's so glad that his throat has been dry for most of the afternoon because if it wasn't, he's sure he would have made some noise by now, given himself away to whatever's out there.

Of course, it turns out his throat's not too dry to let out a shriek when a hand, huge by the feel of it, comes out of nowhere and drags him up by his shoulder. 

All of a sudden, he's face to face with a giant, hulking, bear of a man in the dark, and he's petrified. He's pretty certain he's whimpering, but his brain's rather too focused on the hand in his shirt _holding him off the ground_ to worry about what sort of an impression he's making. There's almost no light now, and all he can see is a huge shadow - a very solid shadow, going by how easily it's got him trapped. There's also rather a lot of heat emanating from the wall that Thomas is kind of assuming is his kidnapper's torso, and even as he shivers in absolute terror, he can feel his body trying to curl in towards the warmth.

He staggers, feet scrabbling at the floor in an effort to not be entirely dragged by his captor, as the ...person pulls him through the woods rather faster than Thomas would move anyway, even if his legs weren't cramping up from the cold and his uncomfortable position.

But then, only moments later, they stop again, and finally the hand lets go of Thomas, dropping him on-- wait, they're out of the forest now, and Thomas can see the sea, can see the glow of the campfires down by the shore. He's so relieved that he forgets to breathe for a second, and it's only when a spearbutt thumps into the ground just an inch from his hand that he freezes in his frantic attempt to clamber to his feet, twists his head around, eyes wide and fearful, to stare up at the man towering above him.

The moonlight's brighter out here, and in the glow, Thomas can make out broad planes and sharp angles, half of him in shadow, and Thomas can't breathe again, he's terrified, and his hands start to shake again, and he's cowering in the grass within sight of the camp, about to die just because he was too stupid to--

There's a hand shoved out in front of him, and for a second Thomas can't do anything but stare at it.

An ominous growl above him galvanises him into action, and he grabs it, holds on as he is tugged effortlessly to his feet, set upright. There are callouses across the palm and the pads of his fingers, just like the ones that the sailors have - the ones that he'll develop, once his hands stop blistering and bleeding. He barely comes up to the man's chin, he's so tall, and he's face to face with-- warpaint? on his chest.

Thomas' cheeks burn, and he _knows_ he's turned bright red - not that he has the faintest idea why. He supposes it must be the backlash of all the fear and worry and adrenaline pumping through him, as well as embarrassment from how much of a coward he must look. Nervously - he refuses to call it shyness, because this man is an unknown, and shyness is for pretty girls you bump into at fairs, giggling behind their hands and shooting sideways glances at you - he looks up at his-- rescuer? captor seems wrong now-- through his eyelashes.

It's a hard, masculine face that stares back, eyes dark and shadowed under strong brows, and long dark hair - dark enough that it seemed to absorb the moonlight instead of reflecting it - tumbling around his face, somehow doing nothing to soften the heavy jaw and high cheekbones. There's silence for a moment, a ponderous silence like they're waiting for something - and Thomas is, because he doesn't know what's going on, doesn't know what this man is going to do.

The warrior in front of him finally raises his free hand, the one he used to help Thomas up, and places it on his own chest.

"Kocoum," he rumbles, and Thomas doesn't know what to do with that bald statement. He doesn't even know what it _means_. Apparently sensing his confusion, or reading it in his face, because God knows Thomas is terrible at hiding what he's thinking, the stranger beats his hand gently against his own chest again, just once, and repeats himself. "Kocoum."

"Oh!" Thomas gasps, and he grins automatically, flushed with victory. "Your name? You're Kocoum?"

Of course, he gets nothing but a patient, blank stare, like he's waiting for Thomas to catch up. Faltering, Thomas raises his own hand, and taps his fingertips on the chest in front of him. They tingle at the contact, but he's nervous, all right - this is a difficult situation to be in when you have no idea what you're doing.

"Kocoum?" he echoes, stumbling over the unfamiliar syllables. The heavy gaze doesn't shift, so Thomas swallows and assumes he's right. Placing his hand over his own chest, right across where his heart is still beating a staccato against his ribcage, he says "Thomas" as clearly as he can, still holding eye contact.

Kocoum tips his head to the side ever so slightly, regarding him fiercely. "Thomas," he mimics.

Thomas nods shallowly, heart thumping, swallowing reflexively.

Then, without another word, Kocoum nudges at his shoulder, pushes him in the direction of the campfires, before turning away and fading back into the shadows beneath the trees. Thomas nearly falls over more than once as he tries to walk while staring back over his shoulder, eyes wide in the hope of catching a glimpse of the imposing figure.

He doesn't see Kocoum once - the man has slipped into the forest like a ghost.

***


End file.
